If (or When)
by LittleLongHairedOutlaw
Summary: Nadir keeps a vigil by Erik's sickbed, and wishes that things could be different. (Kay!verse)
1. The Morphine is a Heavy Weight

Nadir can almost believe he's dead already, watching that still body lying in that bed. So deep is Erik in his unconsciousness the only sign that he's still living is the rise and fall of his chest, too fast even with the morphine in his veins. He watches it absently, the stirring of the coverlet an odd reassurance.

At least it's not like last time, when the poison eventually forced Erik into a coma from which nothing could rouse him. This time, even unconscious, the fingers of his right hand twitch in Nadir's grip, as if trying to pluck the strings of his violin or tap the keys of his pipe organ, that music that runs through his blood fighting to come out. Though when he wakes, he's delirious as often as not, from the morphine more so than the pain, and it's so difficult to know which is worse – the dreadful stillness of before, or having those mismatched eyes meet Nadir's own and look so utterly lost.

Death is such a cruel mistress. What Nadir wouldn't give now to hear that cutting wit, to see the snarling curve of those lips. But even when Erik wakes, he hasn't the energy for such things, can barely whisper for the morphine, too tired even to berate Nadir for being so clumsy with the needle.

In truth, Erik hasn't had the energy for much since he tore the house apart, as if that final whirlwind spent all of the effort let in him, draining him of his life so that he may be dead already. And then, not even a handful of days ago, when Nadir arrived to find him on the point of collapse, struggling to breathe. He shudders at the memory, Erik's words echoing in his mind.

 _You should have let me die._

Such a Fate, dying of a failing heart five storeys below an opera house. It's almost amusing, but Nadir can't bring himself to smile. Not now, not here. At least the mask hides the grey pallor of grave illness from his view.

Ever so gently, he brushes his lips over those pale, limp fingers, and tries to tell himself it's just so Erik knows he isn't alone, knows that he will be missed. Nadir's eyes prickle uncomfortably, and he blinks hard against the threatening tears. It would be so easy to give in to them, to open the floodgates and weep over the frail body in this bed but Erik is not yet dead and would probably consider it undignified.

He did not cry before, in Mazanderan, but things were different then, so very different. It was so sudden and besides, he had to maintain a certain level of composure for Reza. Dear Reza, his poor boy. It's been so long and yet there's still that hollowness beneath his heart that nothing could ever hope to fill. It's closed over somewhat, not as gaping as it once was, and yet it lingers, aching like a ghost, the shadow of a limb that's been removed.

Erik whimpers, low in his throat, his lips twisting. The fingers that have been so still tighten around Nadir's own, his whole body seeming to stiffen for the briefest moment. Nadir smooths back his hair gently and whispers Allah-knows-what, the only response he gets a sharp inhale. A shiver runs through Erik's body, almost a convulsion. The tension bleeds from him as it passes, a soft sigh slipping past his lips, jaw slackening and fingers loosening. He is suddenly so still, his chest not even rising, that Nadir fears he's passed from this life as easily as that and fumbles to find a pulse in that scarred wrist, the scars thin ridges beneath his fingers. Just as he feels the feeble twitch of the delicate veins lurking beneath the skin, Erik sucks in a ragged breath and coughs, gasping for air.

The world rights itself, tilting back into place on its axis. So that's how easily, how mercifully, the end could come. Why was he afraid that it _was_ the end? Surely it would be a kindness for Erik if he slipped away as easily as that, no seizure wracking his body, none of the crushing pain of his earlier attacks. If his heart simply stopped beating, with only the barest murmur of discomfort? There can't be anything wrong in that!

Nadir could help him. He _should_ help him. Erik once helped Reza, after all, spared him a world of suffering and granted him a painless death. He could do the same for Erik. All it would take would be too much morphine. The solution is in his pocket, waiting. He could fill the hypodermic several times, drain the bottle, slide the needle beneath Erik's skin, it wouldn't matter where. He can't find a vein in his right arm anymore ( _all collapsed_ , Erik whispered what seems centuries ago but can only be a handful of days at most), but he can still find some in Erik's left arm. It's not as if he could feel it anyway. He complained of it being numb the last time that he was half-lucid. There are veins in his wrists, they would do. The artery in his neck. He's dying anyway, what does it matter? He wouldn't wake, and the morphine would simply ease him away. It would be painless.

It would be the right thing to do, to help him like that.

(Nadir could sit behind him, prop Erik's head on his shoulder, forehead resting against the pulse in his own throat. Slip the needle into his arm again and again, each time carrying a fresh dose of the drug, and hold him as he relinquished his grip on the world. Cradle him close and whisper soft comforts into his ear. Gently take the mask off so that they're skin on skin. It would be a peaceful death, and he's longed for peace so much through his life. The opium gave it to him once, and then the morphine. It would be the greatest gift that Nadir could give to his greatest friend, to give him a peaceful painless death.)

He can't do it. It would be the right thing to do; he has no qualms about that. But to steal Erik's life from him like that . . . He can't do it, he won't. It's profoundly selfish of him, but he _needs_ to see those eyelids flicker half-open, _needs_ to see those golden mismatched irises at once so dark and so glowing, _needs_ to hear that velvet voice, even if it's only mumbling nonsense. He can't simply release him from this in his sleep, he can't.

A tear creeps past his defences, trailing down his cheek to land in a small damp circle on the coverlet. And suddenly it's as easy as all that to give in, Erik's limp hand pressed to his lips. To hell with the dignity of not crying! It's Erik's fault for dying anyway.


	2. Too Much to Say and no Words to Say It

The last attack was horrifying. There was nothing that Nadir could do, except hold Erik close to him and whisper what he hoped were soothing words, watching as he gasped for breath, his eyes so wild and pained. It was too soon to give him more morphine, lest there would be too much in his blood and it would overwhelm his heart. Nadir's own heart twisted painfully having to deny his friend the relief he so desperately needed.

 _Please._

Such a hoarse, broken word! How his resolve didn't falter in that moment he'll never know. Erik's trembling fingers snagged him by the collar, those golden eyes leaking tears from their corners.

 _I'm sorry._

That was him, a whisper which he hoped Erik could hear through his pain, through his half-choked gasped breaths and gritted teeth. And Nadir tightened his grip on him, one arm under his shoulders, the hand of his other arm at his throat, feeble pulse flickering against his fingers, at once reassuring and terrifying. Yes, his pulse was flickering and still is but for how much longer? How much more can he endure? How soon will come the seizure that puts too much strain on his heart so it stutters and stills? How much more time do they have left?

Such a relief it was to hear that ragged breathing ease, to see through his own tears as those burning eyes slipped closed. And Nadir could swear that the sigh that slipped from those lips as the body he held went slack was the name _Christine_.

Christine. Mademoiselle Daaé. What a comfort it would be to Erik if she came now. Or, what a comfort it would be to him if he were lucid enough to realise her presence here, were she to come. Nadir knows the wedding is fast approaching, he heard a rumour of it the last time he left this lake house, before Erik took his turn for the worst. It cannot be long until she comes bearing the wedding invitation, though whether Erik will be alive or dead Nadir cannot tell. ( _If she comes_. He knows Erik holds the belief that the Vicomte de Chagny will not allow it. But the way she looked at Erik that fateful night as he sent her away makes Nadir think that she will come. _She has to come_.)

Erik's fingers are still tangled in his collar, limp and cold though his body burns hot with a fever. Ever so gently, Nadir disentangles them. Such abnormally long fingers, lying so pale in his hand; fingers that were once so graceful at his violin strings, or the keys of his brass organ reduced to silent waiting. What a monumental waste, for them to lie lifeless and cold with encroaching death.

 _It cannot be long now._

Cannot be long, and the hitching breath that Erik draws will be his last, the feeble pulsing in his throat will still. A flash of wild panic comes over Nadir, and suddenly it is so hard to breathe, his lungs refusing to expand against the certainty of the knowledge that Erik is dying. He's really dying. How can he be dying?

For over thirty years Erik has been an odd constant in his life, even in a twenty-five year absence. For him to die, for him to breathe his last and slip from this world...What does that leave for him, Nadir? It was Erik that drew him to Paris, the unbearable longing to feel closer to the one friend he had left, the craving to hear that strange, lilting language that Erik feigned exasperation in teaching him in lazy evenings so long ago, the setting sun causing his mask to glow. It was a miracle that they found each other again, that they got to have this time even if for so much of it Erik kept him at a distance.

So many words clog Nadir's throat, so many words that he longs to speak, so many things he needs to ensure Erik knows. He is still grateful to him for having eased Reza's suffering, he regrets not having ridden off with him when they parted ways in Persia, he truly will miss him so very much and even now he feels as if he's haemorrhaging with the pain of watching him die, as if he's the one filled with poison and crushed glass. The words tear at his throat, all clamouring for release at once and there are so many of them that he cannot speak. There would be no point speaking them now anyway – with the easing bliss of unconsciousness Erik won't be able to hear him.

Why did he not ride off with him in Persia? They could have had so many years together, so many adventures. He would never have allowed Erik to become a ghost haunting an opera house, would have kept him from loneliness, would have eased his troubled mind and tried to keep him off morphine. Would have done his best to avoid an ending such as this. More and more in the last few weeks, the memory of those wasted years has haunted him so. How he longs to change things, the aching desperation turning and burying itself deep in his heart. If he could go back, could talk some sense into his younger self. The thought of Erik, his dear friend Erik to whom he owes so much, drifting alone and unwanted through the cities of Europe is abhorrent to his mind. That tall black-clad figure, always forced out and hated. He'd protect him if he could, shield him from them all and keep him safe, hold him close through the darkness so he could rest without fear, without facing the blood-soaked abattoir of his mind, as he once described it.

(If he had gone with him, then likely Mademoiselle Daaé would not have crossed their path. Erik would never have taken up the position of "Opera Ghost", and so could not have become her teacher. Would that have been for the best? Or is it better this way, that Erik got to feel what love can be like, for however short a time and with whatever tormenting consequences? Or might circumstance have brought them together anyway, differently, without the deception and pain and thus allowed them to be happy? It kills him to know that he has no answer.)

He's failed him as a friend, done wrong by him and helped to hurt him more even if it wasn't intentionally. He helped to turn him into a ghost when he should have been a king, or a prince. And there's nothing that he can do to change that, no matter how much he longs to.

"My friend," Erik's voice is so faint, thin lips barely moving, but still it is enough to draw Nadir out of his own thoughts. Those yellow eyes regard him glazedly, blind and shining, his fingers trembling in Nadir's hand. "My friend...I'm sorry. I did...wrong. I'm sorry." He coughs and swallows, sighing as his eyes slide shut. "Should've told me...it was broken." The slurred words draw Nadir back to Ashraf, to that vigil by the bed of a poisoned man who should have died, and an involuntary sob catches in his throat. _He's dying now_.

"It's all right, Erik. Don't worry about it." His voice is thick with tears, so that the words are almost incomprehensible even to his own ears. Carefully, as carefully as if it were a newly born baby he is holding and not a fully-grown man, he shifts Erik in his arms, and Erik is so frail and light, so gaunt through his illness and listlessness after sending Mademoiselle Daaé away, his long limbs so awkward. ( _It was always going to come to this_.)

The soft huffs of Erik's breaths prickle the skin of his throat, and he kisses the limp fingers that still rest in his hand.

"Don't...let...me go." The murmur is so faint that Nadir almost doesn't hear it, and his eyes sting at the quiet plaintiveness in those four words. _Don't let me go_. There is nothing, now, that he would rather do less than let go. "Please."

He rests his chin on Erik's head, his tears dripping down into thin greying hair and whispers, "I won't. I promise."


	3. All at Once too Much and too Little

He's past the point of feeling, and suspects he'd be past the point of thinking too if his head weren't so full of thoughts, memories. Erik, long fingers shredding his _Don Juan Triumphant_ , face twisted in agony beneath the mask. Erik, prostrate on his black leather couch surrounded by the debris of his destruction, the hypodermic glinting in the candlelight. Erik, fingers viciously racing across the keys of his organ before he tore it apart. Erik and Erik and Erik. A thousand masked Eriks dancing before his eyes – though he's never seen Erik dance – trailing back thirty years and more to that first meeting in Nijni-Novgorod, Erik dressed all in black, his white mask standing out starkly like a beacon in that tent of bloody red.

(Later the red stained his mask in bloody fingerprints after he heaved so much blood into that white marble bathtub. Another Erik, who's lived quietly in his mind's eye all of these years, black silhouette crumpling to the ground after he issued his last instructions to the master mason. And he ran to him, and turned him over, and almost passed out himself with the relief that he was still breathing, however raspily, head lolling limply, relieved though he knew – or thought he knew – that the end was coming. Never has he been so pleased to be wrong in his life.)

A tapestry of history between them, woven of adventures and mishaps and close escapes and restrained affection. Of course it was restrained. (He wishes it wasn't. He wishes now that he told Erik every day how amazing he is, how exceptional his compositions, how beautiful his artistic vision, how remarkable his inventions no matter how Erik may have complained of him repeating himself. He should have said, should have made certain that Erik would know that he really is the greatest friend Nadir has ever had, and his life would have been so much less wonderful without him in it however often it seemed that Erik was the cause of his multitude of problems. Even being away from each other for so long, the certain knowledge that Erik was still living somewhere was an odd comfort, though how he knew he never could tell.) Erik may naturally be given to drama but when it comes to feeling he prefers to consider himself an automaton, separate from everybody else though he probably feels more keenly than most.

Feels. Soon to be felt. That realisation tumbling back to him is a dagger, piercing deep into Nadir's chest, sharp and cold. _Felt_. Erik is dying, and this time there is nothing that he, Nadir, can do about it. Though truly last time there was nothing that he could do either and he's often wondered how Erik survived the poison. Is it that the very deformity which has ostracised him from society has granted him preternatural healing powers? Or was the poison not measured out strong enough for him? Or was it a warning and not an assassination? Such questions have often drifted into his mind, a morbid fascination that he tries to push away, so he may simply be grateful for the miracle of Erik's survival. It would be infinitely worse to have lost him and then to lose Reza, and it really was painful enough already.

There can be no miracle this time, not unless Mademoiselle Daaé's return can suddenly heal his failing heart. An angel she may be in Erik's eyes, but Nadir suspects that such a recovery is far beyond her powers.

(Though knowing Erik her presence will strengthen his resolve, will help him to cling to life a little longer, for her sake.)

 _I'm pleased…you are here…Nadir._

Erik's voice, so low and tired, murmured those words who knows how long ago. He hardly surfaced to consciousness and they left his barely-moving lips, so soft, eyes only half-open. Nadir squeezed that long-boned fragile hand and smiled what he hoped was kindly at him, whispering, "How could I be anywhere else?" And he isn't even in there now, is instead sitting out here so numb, eyes dry though they burned with tears not so long ago.

But he can't begrudge Mademoiselle Daaé her place at Erik's deathbed, not after the tears that welled up in her eyes at the sight of Erik lying so still, his chest rising and falling in time with his shallow breaths. She sat on the bed next to him and eased the mask from his face and kissed him so carefully, as if she were afraid of hurting him.

(Did she not realise that he's spent the last month aching over having sent her away?)

Even as she slipped that thin gold ring onto his finger, he looked at her with tears trickling down his cheeks, as if he were certain that he was dreaming. How many times did he dream her with him over the last month with his veins full of morphine? How many times did Nadir wake from his vigil beside that bed to hear the broken name _Christine_ whispered by those malformed lips? How many times did that right hand reach as if she were standing _just there_ and he could touch her?

(Did she dream of him, too? Or was coming back merely fulfilling a duty? Was it really love that led her to pledge herself to him, or was it an act of kindness to a dying man, to let him have something that he never could? It is a treasonous thought, and he wishes that he could cut it from his mind, could somehow unthink it. She loves him. There can be no doubt of that. You do not bestow such gentle, caring kisses on someone that you do not love.)

Nadir's heart twists in his chest, pulling him back to this room of slashed drapes and smashed pipes, the Vicomte sitting helplessly next to him with his head in his hands. The bottle of morphine solution is heavy in his pocket for something so small, and his fingers curve around it. If he had had the courage to use it, it would have been a corpse that Mademoiselle Daaé arrived to find and perhaps that would be better for young de Chagny but it would be so cruel to her, to rob her of the chance to swear her love to Erik and lie beside him. (Her one chance to say goodbye properly to him, without prying eyes.) No. It's better now that he didn't use it.

He wishes that he could blame the bottle, could curse it for weakening Erik so and breeding an addiction in him, he truly does. Not so long ago Nadir feared a suicide attempt, feared that the unsteadying grief to which Erik was subject would overwhelm his senses and he'd find him cold and stiff on the couch with the hypodermic on the floor beside him. Or find him sunk in a blood-filled bath, his array of precious knives lined up on the marble edge. He always was prone to fits of melancholy, even in Persia. It would have been no surprise to find him dead or half-dead as the result of his own hand. Only when the fit of rage swept over him and destroyed the house, Nadir let himself believe that maybe things would be all right after all. A fragile glimmer of hope in the darkness, that by the very act of destroying everything he's built Erik could purge the grief from his heart. How soon that hope flickered and died.

Deep inside Nadir knows this was coming. A man such as Erik can't simply go on forever, no matter how it seems he could. To be able to blame something would be so lovely, would ease the knot making itself known in his chest, so tight it feels as if all of the air is leaving the room and it's suddenly so hard to breathe.

He should be in there. He has every right to be. He should be holding Erik's hand and watching to be sure he isn't in pain and soothing him in his delirium. He did it before, of course he should be there to do it now! Why isn't he in there?

Because she is. And she is the one that Erik loves no matter how much it hurts him to do so. (How much it hurts Nadir to admit so.) It's her he chose and her he needs and Nadir may have had a place in that room once, but not anymore.

(It's only right that she be there.)

It's not her fault, of course. It's nobody's fault. How was she to know that he loved her so much it killed him to watch her leave? Yes, his heart was weakened anyway, it's obvious now. Nadir simply missed the signs. (And how many times lately has he thought back to that day when Erik kept flexing his left hand and complained quietly that it was numb? That same left hand that's lifeless now, though he can still use the right. That was the first sign. How did he miss it? How did he not know what it meant? If he'd known, would anything have been different? Would it have mattered?) But there is no doubt in Nadir's mind that sending Mademoiselle Daaé away hastened the inevitable. He might have looked after himself better if she'd been here. He _would_ have.

 _Your tiresome health has become very dear to me_.

Erik's words, as they parted ways in Persia, and Nadir wishes he could say them back to him, but it's too late now no matter how true they are. It's too late.

Is he still alive? Is he still breathing? It seems so important to know, so essential. Has he left this world yet? Or is he still lingering, half in this world and half in the next, his lover at his side comforting him and easing his pain simply by being there? She can do more for him now than Nadir ever could. Any minute now she'll step out of that room and it will all be over, if it isn't already.

Nadir takes a deep shuddering breath, and swallows hard against the tears tightening his throat. His greatest friend will soon be dead, and the world will continue on as if what happens here in this underground house doesn't matter. People will get up and go about their daily lives, the opera will continue on with new players, and Erik will be nothing more than a whispered name, a question of _I wonder where the Phantom has gone; he should be causing trouble._ They won't miss him, they won't realise the great tragedy that will have taken place beneath their very feet. The greatest friend Nadir's ever had will simply be a whispered rumour, and where is the justice in that?

The helplessness of knowing what will happen and yet not being able to do one thing about it cuts him right to the quick. Soon, now. So very soon. And if he could spin these last minutes of Erik's life out forever, so that he may always lie beside the one woman who could truly love him, then Nadir would do everything in his power to grant that one final gift.

But there is no use in pointless wishing, not now. Not anymore.


End file.
